


Sugar Rush, Constant Hush, Water Gush

by MellytheHun



Series: The Deadlights Zine Series [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Bantering, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship is Magic, M/M, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Meta, Pining, Soulmates, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26168152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Eddie, uncontrolled in the Deadlights.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: The Deadlights Zine Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862683
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	Sugar Rush, Constant Hush, Water Gush

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS
> 
> TW: mentions of blood, injuries, childhood trauma, internalized homophobia, sexual identity crisis, AIDS epidemic related anxiety (headlines found in News of the World, The Sun, and Project HOPE: The People-to-People Health Foundation), mentions of death, manipulative/abusive parent, period-typical homophobia, physical illness, vomiting, and spiders!
> 
> Title inspired by 'Mary,' by Big Thief

**Eddie**

Eddie wasn't always a strong bike rider - he used to wobble a lot, when he was first learning. His turns were either really, really wide, or way, way too tight, and he'd lean too far in, or too far out, overcompensating, and veering. He thinks he does that a lot with his life, in general too. The overcompensation, followed by a loss of control. He doesn't mean to be that way, but he hopes, like with his bike, that he'll get better at it with time.

In any case, he's very familiar with the swooping-stomach sensation that accompanies very nearly losing balance on an object still in motion.

That's what it feels like, when the lights hit him.

He feels blood rush in his throat, and there's some physical illusion that his intestines are floating up from his abdomen, like he's full of formaldehyde, and his innards are on display, bobbing up into his ribcage.

He wants to right himself, he wants to get his balance back, but he can't - there aren't any brakes to backpedal, there are no handlebars to help him shift direction or weight, and rather than smashing into asphalt, he seems to just fall forever.

He’d only admit it under the threat of imminent death, but Richie is the one that really taught Eddie how to ride a bike. 

He remembers the day very well, how sunny it was outside, how the light bounced off all their bike frames, the cicada-sound of Richie's Pokemon cards wedged in the spokes of his front wheel, and how Bill and Stan invited him to come play at Bill’s house. It was one of Eddie's first times being explicitly asked on a play-date. He wanted to go with them, he readily agreed, but then they'd said how they’d wanted to ride their bikes to the park, and he should join them.

Eddie's heart had plummeted, and he told them all that he did not own a bike, which was true at the time, and Bill had suggested he just ‘get on,’ this spare bike his father kept in the garage, and Stan had mentioned how ‘naturally,’ it came to everyone, how Eddie was ‘a kid, so, it’s normal.'

He remembers how it was like speaking another language in front of them, how confused they were that he was hesitant, and he had tried to explain that his mother thought of bikes as rusty, poorly constructed death traps, how he really didn’t feel comfortable getting on one, much less operating it, but Richie was the only one that even partially listened.

He’d said to the other boys, “I’m not gonna put Eds here on a bike without any practice! What if he gets hurt?”

Stan and Bill had shrugged, and said they all got hurt on bikes at some point, that it was also normal - that 'everyone takes a tumble.'

The certainty that he would fall regardless of precautions only worsened Eddie's anxiety, but Richie assured Eddie that he’d help, "it's okay, Eddie, it's not like you can't get up again. I'm really good at riding a bike, but I fall all the time anyway," and Stan had yelled at him, "what - if you fall all the time, then you're _not_ good at riding a bike!"

They'd argued about the validity of Richie's biking prowess, what the ratio was between him being upright, and him being on the ground, Eddie had hoped the topic of discussion would shift fully away from him, but ultimately, Richie put a hand on Eddie's shoulder, and said, "don't listen to Stan. Even if I fall a lot, it doesn't mean I'm bad at it, and even if I were bad at it, I won't let you get hurt, okay? I won't let you get hurt."

Eddie tried very hard to get out of it, warning them that if he went home with grass stains, bruises, cuts, or scrapes, his mother would put a full stop to their budding friendships, and there could even be the threat of criminal charges being brought against them.

Halfway between sweetly encouraging, and obnoxiously overbearing, Richie somehow convinced Eddie to get on the spare bike.

Stan and Bill eventually changed their tunes, watching Eddie wobble and shake on the bike, and realizing they may not have really been capable of remembering a time they didn’t know how to ride their bikes. Realizing that, perhaps, it was not a natural, instinctive skill all children their ages were innately gifted with.

They weren't particularly helpful - Bill liked to bike quickly, he liked for it to feel like a carnival ride, or like he was flying, and Stan preferred to pace himself, focus on keeping steady, and straight, like a monorail - so they shouted a lot of contradictory advice, which only served to make Eddie more nervous.

While Bill and Stan began arguing amongst themselves about their teaching methods, Richie whispered, "you'll make your own way of riding, so don't worry about how other people ride their bikes. I ride mine totally different from them."

"Well, if I believe either of them, then your different way of riding is that you spend most of your time on the floor."

In response, Richie rattled the bike, making Eddie screech, and turn very red.

"Do not bite the hand that is keeping you upright, Spaghett-ward," Richie advised, all while pushing his enormous glasses up his nose with his free hand.

There was a lot of “do not let go - I’m gonna fall! - I’m leaning! Richie! I’m leaning off to the side!” and a lot of Stan saying, “I really don’t know why you’d rely on Richie to help you with something like this,” and Bill saying, “hey, you’re g-getting the hang of it!” and Richie doing a lot of, “man, I’m right here! You’re not gonna fall! Don’t stop pedaling, that’s the thing that’s keeping you upright - you’re not leaning! I'm right here! Just keep moving! I’m holding onto the bike, Eds, you’re not gonna fall -”

The whole ordeal was embarrassing, and Eddie did fall - _plenty_ \- but he mostly fell _onto_ Richie, who was kind in sacrificing himself as a softer place to land than the sidewalk, or road, so it didn't hurt so much. No matter which way Eddie fell, Richie threw himself in that direction, and softened the fall. He made himself a buffer between Eddie, and the hard parts of the Earth, which was a level of compassion Eddie was entirely unused to, and was also something he had not expected from Richie. That level of tenderness and care embarrassed him more, somehow, but he was too scared of getting hurt to ask Richie to stop. Embarrassed as he was, no one made fun of him for it when he fell, but he still cried about it.

Ignoring how Eddie wiped frustrated tears from his cheeks, gripping the handlebars from the front of the bike, Richie looked at him with such set intention, and told him, “the bike will only do what you want it to do. You don’t have to be scared, Eddie - you’re in control.”

It was the first time it had occurred to Eddie that his fears, perhaps, did not lie specifically in contracting illness or injury, but rather, not being in control. 

It was the first time someone had made the equation look like ‘generalized feeling of a loss of control over self or environment = fear,’ rather than ‘frailty/death = fear.’

There was an addendum too; an unspoken 'and if you lose control, I will catch you, and help you get it back again.'

That sudden truth revitalized Eddie, it made him want to try harder, listen better, keep trying, and those revelations were how Eddie came to love riding his bike - he was in control.

After several more rounds of trials, and errors, Eddie found that Richie was right, that Eddie was the one in control.

The bike went where he told it to go, it moved however fast he pedaled, it halted whenever he braked, he could stop and start at any time, and that - that was new to him, as a kid. Having any measure of control over anything at all was brand new to him. It was a treasure. One that Richie gave him, with an enthusiastic grin, and gentle, lightly calloused hands.

_“Did you like that, Eddie? You liked Richie’s hands on you? Ho-ho-ho-ho-hoooo, Richie, Richie, Richie, all smiles, all laughs, all that color, and noise, chucks, chucks, chucks! - what would your mother say, Eddie-bear, if she knew? What will she say, when she **sees** you?”_

There’s rushes of imagery, feral waves of memories crashing over him then; only just making it to the bathroom sink at the Uris’s house in time to throw up the too-many Mike ‘N Ikes he’d eaten before dinner, his body trembling with anxiety that his stomach would further flex and contract beyond his control, the cool sweat clinging to his neck, hating that he can’t choose to brake fast a backpedal on his body, and stop it.

He was so embarrassed that he didn't even manage to get to the toilet, he was crying and apologizing repeatedly - Mrs. Uris insisted that it was okay, that she wasn't mad at him, that he did nothing wrong, but he paid for it anyway, spending five full days at various doctors' offices, with his mother speaking over him, and ordering physicians around as though she knew better than them. No matter how many times he explained to her that he'd simply eaten too much sugar too quickly, she kept having doctors shove tongue-depressors down his throat, and jam otoscopes too deep into his ears. There was no stopping it.

Then a legitimate, dreadful flu, in the fifth grade that left him stuck at home, completely bed-bound, no way to steer the germs out of his sinuses, limbs too heavy to even think of moving, but he was forced to, anyway. His mother bussed him from office to office, he retched in several lobby bins, he cried with the bruising pain of every puncture of a needle, pulling his blood from him for tests that wouldn't even be back before he was over whatever was ravaging his body.

He only wanted to be home, and to rest, but his mother insisted he be tested for bacterial meningitis because she thought his muscle stiffness was much too severe, and then telling the doctors he could be at risk for respiratory syncytial virus because of his moderate to severe asthma, or that it could be mononucleosis because his 'filthy school-boy playmates,' insisted on sharing sweets - and if it wasn't mono, it could be bronchitis based on his coughing, or sepsis what with all his retching, or babesiosis since he'd been playing outside so much, or streptococcus, or scarlet fever, or rubella, or cat-scratch disease, or pneumonia, and everything else under the Sun she could possibly name.

He was so miserable, so tired, he felt it would've been easier to simply die while waiting in one of the multiple doctors' offices (since his mother needed second, third, and fourth opinions on all the negative tests, and reassurances on all the ones that came back positive for the common flu), and when he finally made it back to his bed, and helplessly stared out his window, or groaned at his ceiling, in his loneliest hours, left wondering if this is what it will be like - what it will _always_ be like - that he'll be stuck to a mattress, heavy as a rock sinking down into the ocean, that he'll always be ill, and frail, and never at the helm; that the bike-riding was just an illusion, it was just a joke, a one-off, a fever dream.

But Richie wouldn't lie to him like that.

"You don't have to be scared, Eddie - you're in control," he'd hear it on repeat in his head as he fell asleep, and it wasn't soothing like a lullaby, or calming like a mantra, but it was rather like hearing Church bells ring right at noon. It was a loud, but pleasant reminder, a statement and not an offer or suggestion, just a fact, a fact that helped Eddie fall into restful sleeps, despite feeling his stomach swoop treacherously every hour that his mother came to check how his fever was fairing. 

He had wanted to see Richie so badly when he was sick, but his mother wouldn't let anyone, much less 'that rowdy hooligan,' within fifty yards of the house.

Even that young, though, he could conjure the image of Richie so perfectly from just a memory. He could see Richie as if Richie were there in his room with him when his fever got very high; he could see Richie's knuckles dirty, his nails chewed at, holding onto the bike, holding onto Eddie’s waist, smiling at him, and Eddie remembered wanting to get closer to Richie, not wanting to fall off the bike, but wanting to fall _on_ to Richie, feeling good and happy around Richie, feeling out of control around Richie, wanting to laugh, and cry, and argue, and goof off together -

“They’re putting bodies in the dumpsters, you know,” his mother told him, shaking her head at the AIDS Epidemic coverage on the news, “The _dumpsters_ , Eddie. The hospitals and morgues don’t even have room anymore for all those sick men."

"W-Where?" Eddie had asked, watching headlines flash on the television screen - **MY DOOMED SON'S GAY PLAGUE AGONY** , _News of the World investigates the deadly invader_!

The way Richie would wheeze breathlessly from laughing too hard, and he'd start crying, and kicking his legs out, like his body couldn't contain all the laughter and joy, and it spilled out everywhere, even onto Eddie - Richie being happy made Eddie happy, he wanted to make Richie happy all the time, so he could have more of it, so he could experience it all more, and more -

"Oh, everywhere. It's a plague, Eddie," Sonia answered ominously, "Los Angeles, and New York City - places with too many people, too close together, and all those germs. It's all such a terrible waste, Eddie."

On the television were clips of people in hospital beds struggling to answer interviewers, all severely underweight, jaundice, sad, scared, alone but for whatever camera crew was in there with them, and then clips of people marching, signs that said 'ACT UP,' a news anchor telling the audience grimly, "- and as of yet, no one with AIDS has been cured," while below him the news ticker rotated with 'I'D SHOOT MY SON IF HE HAD AIDS, SAYS VICAR - HE WOULD PULL TRIGGER ON REST OF FAMILY, TOO - UPCOMING INTERVIEW -'

“If an interesting monster can’t have an interesting hairdo, I don’t know what this world is coming to," Richie told Taylor Reese, who had decided to tell Richie that his hair was 'an ugly rat's nest,' completely unprovoked one sunny, school day, and the way Richie adopted Bugs Bunny's body language, and facial expression so easily, and immediately made Eddie laugh until he had the hiccups. He likes when Richie is a big goof like that, when Richie doesn't even care that he's been insulted, and sees it as some excuse to entertain Eddie.

As much as they bicker, and push each other around, Eddie still grins at Richie when they catch each other's eye in classrooms, or when Richie flicks a folded note his way, but Eddie picks at his cuticles too, when Richie shows off those strangely endearing buck teeth, he sometimes doesn't know what to do with his hands when Richie smiles at him.

Mr. Tozier keeps insisting that he'll get Richie into his office one of these days, and put braces on him, but the last time he said anything about it in front of Eddie, he and Bill, and Stan giggled and snorted ridiculously as Richie popped his chewing gum, and said to his father, 'for shame, doc. Do you happen to know what the penalty is for shootin' a fricaseeing rabbit without a fricaseeing rabbit license?'

Whenever someone makes fun of his teeth at school, he puts on the _best_ Bugs Bunny Voice, and he'll crack all his knuckles, give Eddie a cheeky wink, and tell him, 'eeeeeeh, watch me paste that pathetic palooka with a powerful, pachydermous, percussion pitch,' and then say something absolutely filthy, and unforgivable about their mother, disproportionately insulting to whatever prompted the interaction in the first place, and it never fails to make Eddie laugh into discomfort -

"A vicar vowed yesterday that he would take his teenage son to a mountain, and shoot him if the boy had the deadly disease AIDS, and to make his point, the Reverend Robert Simpson climbed a hill behind his Church, and aimed a shotgun at his eighteen year old son, Chris," the anchorman reports, "Mr. Simpson, sixty-four years old, said, quote: “Chris would not get closer to me than six yards. He would be a dead man. Even though he is my own child, I would pull the trigger – and that would go for the rest of my family, as well as strangers. AIDS is so serious – there is no possible cure.”

There's a picture on the screen of an older holy man pointing a hunting rifle in the face of a boy, and then a camera is honed in on the boy, a boom only just visible near the corner of the shot.

He's very evidently shaken, “I-I don’t think I would like Dad to shoot me... but, I know there is no chance with AIDS," the boy shrugs - he shrugs in this awkward, frightened way that Eddie sometimes does, he looks guilty like Eddie sometimes feels, "I - uhm - I don't know. Sometimes I think he would like to shoot me whether I had AIDS or not.” 

Instantly, Eddie is petrified for that boy, Chris, he wants Chris to be pulled aside, taken away, to expand on that feeling, confirm if he's safe or unsafe with his own father, and Eddie wonders if his father were alive to see this, what he might think of it all. What he might think of Eddie.

"Mr. Simpson, married, with three other children, believes the disease is threatening Britain," the interviewer summarizes, "He said he would ban all practicing homosexuals - who are most in danger of catching AIDS - from taking normal communion."

“I will not let anyone risk the health of my parishioners by allowing them to drink wine from the same chalice," the Reverend is recorded saying, "In six years time, more than a million people in Britain will have AIDS. If it continues, it will be like the Black Plague. It could wipe out Britain. Family will be against family. Nobody will trust anyone else, and gun law will prevail.”

"But the fighting vicar says he has nothing against gays," the interviewer assures, calmly cutting away to Mr. Simpson again, saying passively, “I have counseled and helped them over years."

The news anchor comes back on the big screen, and announces, "Mr. Simpson calls on the Government to repeal the law on homosexuality between consenting adults, and prostitution – and to punish promiscuity. More on that when we come back..."

The sun set early one summer evening, and Richie and Eddie had found themselves alone together, walking their bikes back toward Eddie's house, sunburnt, and pleasantly exhausted from a day of biking and swimming. At some point, Eddie had to stop to tie his shoelaces, which had come undone, and he'd argued with Richie about his ability to tie his own shoes, which Richie was questioning to get a rise out of him. 

He was turning his head to say something snarky at Richie, but as he did, his periphery got caught on a small shadow cast along the sidewalk. When he realized it was being cast by a spider of considerable mass not far enough from his face, he jumped up with a shout, and backed up into Richie, dropping his bike.

"What?" Richie asked, "What is it?"

"Holy fucking shit - that spider is enormous!" Eddie exclaimed, pointing at the offender.

Crouching down, Richie straightened out his glasses as if to see it better, and questioned, "aw, come on - that little lady?"

"That thing is gigantic, Richie! That fuck has a-a fuckin' social security number, that thing is on the grid! And how would you even know if it's a girl spider?" Eddie asked petulantly, embarrassed that Richie did not appear as frightened.

"The girl spiders get super big because they eat all the boy spiders."

"They do not."

"They do! And they get the big butts, because they make the webs, and shit. Boy spiders are small as fuck, dude. Did you know their dicks come off?"

"I hate you."

"I'm being serious!" Richie argued, standing up again, and smiling in a way that was inherently aggravating to Eddie, "The boy spiders are fuckin' itty bitty, and they basically, like, have to hope their big lady loves don't _notice_ they're being mated! And when she does notice, she usually kills him, or eats him, or just knocks him off her, like, that _actually_ happens when they mate! So, the boy spiders have dicks that are like, uh... portable. They detach, like, come off, and stay inside the girl spider, to make sure she gets pregnant."

"That is literally the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."

"Is it, though?" Richie inquired, still looking too pleased with himself, "I feel like I have imparted some truly disgusting knowledge over the years -"

"You have, and I have hated it every single time -"

"Surely not every single time -"

"Every time! Every time, Richie! Why would you even know this about spiders!? Why would you -"

"Because one time I said to Stan that spiders basically have no natural enemies, and he was like 'of course they do,' and talked to me for like an _hour_ about chickadees and sparrows, and how they eat giant spiders, and shit -"

"That's disgusting! All of this is disgusting, and it still doesn't explain why you'd know anything about spider dicks -"

"I learned it against my will too! How else is that information passed along!? He told me how he tried to lure blackbirds into his yard by moving spiderwebs from his neighbor's yard into his, and he watched the spiders like he watched the birds, figured out the big ones had to be the moms, then did his own research about the detachable dicks, and told me about it -"

"How does someone move spiderwebs!? _Why_ would anyone -"

"Ask Stan! I don't fuckin' know! They're the freakiest bugs on Earth, dude, I wouldn't willingly move them into my yard if it meant fuckin' Big Bird would make a fuckin' appearance -"

"They're not bugs, idiot! They're arachnids!"

"Yeah, well, so are lobsters, technically!"

"I HATE YOU!" Eddie screeched, flailing his arms around, red in the face as Richie doubled over laughing, "Why are you always forcing this information on me!? I would have lived a longer, happier life not knowing any of this, Richie!"

"You want me to squash her for you?" Richie eventually inhaled enough air to ask, as though it would serve as an apology for non-consensual information-sharing.

"Obviously!" Eddie had demanded, and loyal as ever, Richie had said to the spider, 'sorry, little lady, but you've frightened Eds, and that's deeply uncool,' and then put his foot down.

As it turned out, she was so remarkably big, because she was pregnant.

Hundreds of tiny spiders exploded from the epicenter of Richie's sneaker, and they both screamed, and fled, dropping their bikes in their panic, and ran half a block away from the scene of the murder.

Eddie took out his inhaler, shook it forcefully, and as soon as he inhaled, he looked to Richie to find him already staring.

Richie was all Sun-kissed from the day, his hair was ruffled (more than what was usual for him), and his eyes were big, and worried, looking down at Eddie with a streetlamp illuminating him from above, and behind. His arms were weirdly stiff by his sides, like he wanted to hug Eddie, but he didn't. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets instead.

Eddie was weirdly disappointed.

"You okay, Eddie?"

"Yeah - I mean, that was horrific, nothing is sacred, I'll never feel safe again, but yeah."

Cautiously, Richie smiled again, chuckling, and Eddie saw red undertones he'd never noticed before, at the top of Richie's mop of hair, with the light streaming through it.

Richie spent half an hour checking Eddie's bike for spiders before they took off home again, and he cackled up into the night sky when he asked why Eddie looked 'so constipated,' about his bike, and Eddie complained that he was 'breaking out in hives, just looking at it.' 

It made Eddie smile, to make Richie laugh.

"Next, a toddler with AIDS has been banned from a kindergarten in Sydney, Australia, after biting her playmate," the news anchor reports.

Eddie didn't know babies could get it - he didn't know little kids could get sick that way.

"I can’t bear it. I just can't bear it," Sonia laments tearfully, tearing her glassy, beady eyes away from the television to look pleadingly at Eddie, "Whatever you do, don’t do that to me, Eddie-bear. I - I just think of what those mothers are going through, seeing their baby boys laid up in the hospitals, shoveled into dumpsters, all because they refused to just have wives, and live normal lives - Eddie, don’t do that to me, I couldn’t take it, I can’t -”

A wife - Eddie couldn't imagine having a wife. He tried, but as far as he could imagine only reached the altar, in a nondescript Church with anonymous families filling up the pews, and he wanted to pedal backward hard and fast, brake, but that isn't an option.

He couldn't imagine a woman coming down the aisle, he sort of hoped he'd never imagine her, but he could imagine Richie beside him. That part was easy. He thought there would be no one better to imagine on a day like his wedding day than Richie - he'd be Eddie's Best Man, dressed up, and sharp, but his hair would probably still be a mess somehow, and he'd kill any nearby spiders, and he'd let Eddie fall onto him if he had to, he'd smile his perfect, million watt smile, and that microscopic daydream filled Eddie with sorrow, rage, anxiety, and gladness all in equal measure, because Richie makes him feel weird!

Richie makes him happy, and sad, and nervous, and euphoric, and insane, and grounded, and he’s not in control of it, he can’t control the way he feels around Richie, and he remembers the first time he really crashed his bike, he remembers that he yelled over his shoulder to Richie that he was going too fast, that he didn't know how to brake safely, and it was all happening so fast.

He remembers how Richie told him, 'sometimes, you just have to move with the crash! You can try to bail if you think you can, but just try not to fight it! It'll suck, but you'll be okay!'

He remembers how he listened to Richie, because he trusted Richie, because Richie is the one that gave him the gift of bike-riding, Richie is the one that gave him that independence, that control, and he quickly decided he couldn't jump off the bike safely, that he'd just have to crash with it. And he did. And it sucked.

But then, he remembers, just as his eyes were watering, his knees all scraped up, his clothes covered in grass stains, Richie pulled up on his own bike, stumbled off it, and ran to him. Richie had been there so fast, and he'd grinned at Eddie, confusing Eddie's tears away, and he'd said, "that was perfect, Eds!"

"I lost _control_ ," Eddie had pointed out to him.

"I know!" Richie celebrated, his eyes glittering with pride, "You were amazing! You did it!"

And that's what it feels like with Richie, still. Like that moment, suspended - Eddie's propelling forward at an unsustainable speed, he's going to spin out, he's going to drive himself into the ground somehow, and he won't be able to jump ship. He'll be worse for wear, and Richie will be in the dirt with him, never prouder, never gladder to be with anyone else, and making Eddie feel good about losing control. 

It's all so twisted up, all that good and bad mixed up in the part of his heart labeled 'Richie,' and he thinks again about Richie being his best man, and that reminds him of the way Richie's arms were all stiff the night they both got scared off by spiders, and he wonders if Richie could really smile so big at his wedding, to a woman he couldn't even conjure up in make-believe. He wonders if Richie would be stiff, and off, and awkward, and have his hands in his pockets, or something, if he'd be subdued in that strange way he sometimes gets around Eddie.

It's like Richie hasn't committed to the fallout. He's all locked up on the bike, his muscles are all tensed, and that's going to make the crash worse, and he knows that, he told Eddie to 'just let gravity do whatever it's gonna do,' and he can't take his own advice. It's like Richie's a danger to himself, and he knows it, and it shows sometimes, but Eddie can't see the whole picture. It's puzzle pieces randomized in front of him, and he can't figure out what it all comes together to be.

Some parts of the puzzle look like Richie haloed by a streetlight, his smile big and perfect - some of it is Eddie throwing up candy into the closest thing with a drain - the midday sunshine beating off the metal bike handle - the flu making him heavy as a stone - Richie’s hand touching his calf in the hammock at the clubhouse - the bodies in dumpsters - his mother’s voice - his body, his body, cut up and bruised from crashing his bike - his body, his body ill and decaying, lying in a hospital bed, skeletal, his body eating itself - _eating itself_ \- 

He feels something rough like calluses cradling his face, and it’s like righting the bicycle from where it had been leaning dangerously off to one side. 

_“No pills for that, Eddie! No pill in the whole wide world for that. No controlling it. No **control**!”_

When he opens his eyes, Richie is still kissing him. 

At the back of his throat, he tastes Mike ‘N Ikes.

Richie's hands are calloused, the way Eddie remembers them being, though he can't remember the last time Richie voluntarily put his hands on Eddie's skin. His lips are softer than Eddie could have imagined them being, and he can feel Richie's heart pounding against his own chest.

Rabid fear sits heavy in amidst the butterflies in Eddie's stomach, but he can’t remember why he was so terribly frightened a moment ago.

When Richie pulls away, he’s beet-red, teary-eyed, his hands are shaky, but he looks so hopeful, and Eddie feels so proud of him, and he feels safe again, because he knows if he falls, Richie will be right there to soften the landing, and Eddie smiles at Richie without meaning to. Without controlling it.


End file.
